Facing the truth
by I'm Nova
Summary: (or at least bits of it). My take on season 4, episode 1, scene 1, considering TAB according to some metas I read. Which yes, means TAB spoilers (anyone has yet not seen that?). Tw for suicidal ideation mentioned and drug use (that's what earns the rating, sadly - not sex).


_Disclaimer: I do not own anything at all. A.N. I know, I know, I should be working on my ongoing fics. But this bunny bit me after TAB and wouldn't let go. I'm assuming ALL of TAB was mindpalace (because of Mycroft's Tie Mystery) and that they found Sherlock ODed and brought him to hospital. This does not in any way, shape or form represents truth about waking up from overdose, but bunny didn't want to hear about me doing research. It was a very impatient bunny. And I wanted to make this into Johnlock, but the boys chickened up, so…sorry about that. Also, thank you so so much to TakedaEmo120 (you should really go read her story!) for being so very inspirational._

Facing the truth

When Sherlock properly regains consciousness, he's on a hospital bed. The smells, the annoying beeping – he doesn't need to open his eyes to know. Why is he? Hadn't he been going home to deal with the Moriarty affair?

Oh. Of course. That was a hallucination, too. He'd been overdosing – neither Mycroft nor John would stand for him to just get back to Baker Street and work when he was in such a state. They'll probably be angry, despite MindPalace!Mycroft's assurance. So bothersome. He doesn't want to deal with their anger now. He very much doesn't want to face their inevitable disappointment too. And he wants even less to see all-too-smug Mary (she's definitely hanging around John). But, he doesn't smell her out…

Still, pretending to be unconscious can only be continued so far, especially if John is present (oh please let him be). The man is a doctor after all. Sherlock barely opens his eyes, and he is very pleased to see John – and no one else. He's sitting at his bedside, hands on the too-white linens, almost touching his friend (why couldn't he breach these few centimeters and touch him? Please?).

"Sherlock…" his best friend (that, at least) calls out immediately, and it's so packed with disappointment – yes, he expected that, of course – and despair (why? He's out of the woods, isn't he?) that it hurts to hear.

"What _the hell_ were you thinking?" John growls. Oh, there is the anger. Of course there is. Hopefully the doctor won't attack someone already in a hospital bed. He's better trained than that.

"Had to solve the case," the sleuth croaks. He's hurting all over, and really doesn't want to have this talk now.

"I am an idiot, in comparison with you – I know that. But I'm not a complete one, Sherlock. There was no Moriarty case until you got on the plane – and you got drugged before that. As for whatever case was waiting for you in Europe, you wouldn't have. Theorizing without data unfailingly makes you adapt the data you find to your ideas, and not the inverse. You didn't take drugs _for a case_. You didn't bloody _overdose_ for a case. So I ask again, what the hell were you thinking? If the plane hadn't turned back, you'd be _dead_ by the time you arrived in Europe. Dead! Again!" his friend half-screams half-chokes.

Sherlock fights the instinct to apologise. "I would be soon anyway," he reveals instead. It's useless trying to deceive John – he's smarter than he looks. Might as well confess and get rid of the boulder of unsaid sitting between them (or at least, chip at some of it).

"What?" the doctor hisses, incredulous.

"Six months, John. I killed a man in cold blood in front of a platoon of witnesses. I should have been jailed for decades. Did you really think six months' work was going to cut it?" he replies, spiteful.

"In six months you'd be…you'd be….and you let me believe…you really can't be honest, can you?" his blogger echoes, looking like he'd really appreciate an orange shock blanket now.

"You want honesty, John? Are you sure it'll make you happy?" the detective asks, stern despite his weakness.

The doctor nods numbly. Of course he wants that. He's always wanted to know Sherlock's secrets. Isn't it obvious?

"Did I try to kill myself? Yes," the sleuth admits, cold like ice. With an effort, he takes off the hospital issued gown and turns on his stomach, adding, "But you'll forgive me for not wanting more of the same."

John's sharp, shocked inhale is his only reaction at such a sight, and he's very proud for not screaming and disturbing everyone in the ward. Yes, he's been trained for such things, but it doesn't make it any easier to deal with when it's _Sherlock_ bearing these scars. "When…where…?" he stammers incoherently.

"Serbia, while I was…away," the consulting detective explains, half-choking the words inside his pillow, careful not to reveal how close to their reunion that had actually been – John would feel guilty, and he deserved the beating, he _deserved it_.

"And they were _sending you back_? To _die?_ " John growls, angry, no, livid. The detective chances a sideways glance at him, and sees the Captain – the one that always makes him hot under the collar (and it's so inconvenient a timing now!) – but possibly a revolutionary captain ready to put to fire and sword (and blow up, why not) the parliament and everyone involved in commuting Sherlock's sentence. At least he won't blame Sherlock for seeking a painless death – a sweet, dreamy death (dreaming of him, but that's too much to admit now) anymore.

"Better than thirty years in a cell," the detective remarks, with a tiny shrug, and daring to turn back again. John has certainly seen enough – deduced enough – by now. He _was_ an army doctor. And the brunet wants to see his friend properly. Of course, when he says that, he means death is the better option. He would go mad in decades of solitary confinement – he almost went mad in a week of it. But if they allowed him anywhere near the other inmates…well, rape is the least he could expect. So yes, better to die. Not necessarily in Serbia, though.

"It was my gun. You should have let me shoot that bastard," is the conclusion the doctor somehow arrives to. Well, that made no sense. John would have been in jail, then, and that couldn't be allowed to happen. Sherlock had _waited_ for a platoon of witnesses to ensure no one could suspect his friend.

He tells him as much. "That would have completely missed the point."

"Sorry? I thought the point was protecting Mary," John objects, frowning. The detective had even said as much, hadn't he? 'Tell Mary she's safe now.' "Oh, and I suppose my child too – what with her being pregnant. But still – my family, Sherlock. I should have been the one protecting it. Yes, I know, you had somehow got involved in the case before us – you must have had a client, so I suppose there were other people that needed protecting. But you could have left that case unsolved, or – do anything else. You killed Magnussen for us, and it's not that I don't get it – believe me, I do, and I am thankful. I just think that it would have been a lot less trouble if you'd left the shooting to me as usual."

"You'd be in jail. If Mycroft couldn't protect me…" the sleuth points out, trailing off because there's no need to state the obvious. If he was impotent to save his own brother, Mycroft wouldn't have even tried to save John Watson from the consequences of his actions. "And the whole point of – of everything has always been you, safe and happy. So yes, missing the point." He's afraid he's confessing a bit too much, but he isn't, is he? Best friends are allowed to wish their best friend safe and happy aren't they? Even if they might be pants at ensuring that second adjective? (He's apologized and been forgiven, but he's afraid neither of them will ever fully be over these two years.)

"Well then you're entirely missing the point too," his friend replies, voice light despite being so full of emotion he might burst. Oh, Sherlock. "I can't be happy if you're dead. We've been through this already. So, there. No more suicidal attempts. I'll protect you, I swear." Let police, politicians, MI6 and the bloody whole army try to take Sherlock from him and send him to his death. Captain John Hamish Watson will kick everyone's asses to Tibet. Sherlock has to know this, surely?

Sherlock _does_ know this. He knows by now that yes, some people are heroes, and John is definitely one of them. His brave Captain that will not let his _best friend_ 's enemies – internal or external – ruin him. No matter how little the sleuth actually deserves that. But there's one point John is lying about, and the sleuth can't let it rest. "You _can_ be happy – without me. You were." He'd moved on. Got Mary to keep him satisfied and in trouble and everything John might possibly need for his happiness – and Sherlock had understood, and carefully given him everything the doctor wanted.

"Why do you think Mary tried to convince me to patch things up with you? She saw. She saw that I flourished when you were around – that I might be angry, but I was gloriously, deliriously happy too, more than she'd ever seen me before. I can, apparently, survive your death, though I'm so not keen on going through that again. But if you really want me happy, you'll have to stick around," John insists earnestly. He won't anyone take Sherlock from him – but he needs the detective's collaboration. Sherlock can't try to take his own life – not again. He's the only one who could manage it, and John has enough nightmares about his fake suicide not to want the ones about his actual one. If Sherlock died…he can't even make himself imagine it.

"As long as you _stick around,_ too," the consulting detective…pleads? Promises? There's an almost hungry look in his eyes.

"Of course. Look, I'm sorry about after the wedding – I was so stupid. I should have stopped by. I swear, no more estrangement, no more loneliness. Whatever happens, we're in this together. MI6, Moriarty, or zombie apocalypse. Actually, you know, that might explain things," John remarks, earnest but ending with a laugh. Yeah, that'd make sense. Jim's next word being, "Brrrraaaains".

Sherlock wants to scold him for being irrational – zombies are even worse than ghosts and twins – but ends up laughing with him instead. He's not dead, and they're laughing together, and they have a case ahead that will be a challenge even if it is only Moriarty's digital ghost that has been dragged out of his grave. And even if he's not entirely, truly happy – he will never be until Mrs. Hudson, and Angelo, and even Irene are all proven right (which Sherlock doesn't really think they can be) – he's learned long ago that this, this can be enough.


End file.
